


Writing on the Wall

by nevermindgrantaire



Series: Carry On [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Crush, Bad Cooking, Fluff, Friendship, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, they all share a house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermindgrantaire/pseuds/nevermindgrantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis share a house while in college and seemingly never actually do any work but carry on having soap-opera style dramas and crushes.<br/>Jehan pines from a distance, writes poetry on everything he's not supposed to and hopes that it all works out in the end. Enjolras and Grantaire hate each other (but not really) and Courfeyrac doesn't even know what to think.<br/>Alternative title: 5 Times Jehan tried to write poetry for Courfeyrac and 1 time it actually worked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing on the Wall

Jehan had an odd relationship with his muse.

Some days it would feel like he was standing in a downpour, deluged with ideas and phrases and metaphors that his muse happily let rain down on him until his head buzzed from thinking and his hands screamed from typing.

Other days it seemed to him that the muse he relied on was dancing over his head with a huge black umbrella so that none of the sleeting ideas hit home.

When he was showered with ideas, though, he had made it a habit to write down exactly what he was thinking, a constant stream of though scrawled on every surface otherwise his mind felt like it would overflow. He couldn’t bear to lose an idea. Jehan wrote all the time.

After a quiet day in the bookstore where he worked, if you happened to glance at his arms you would see hundreds of spiralling words wrapped around his skinny wrists. At first glance they looked like tattoos but then the next day they were replaced with new words it became clear that nothing was out of bounds when Jean Prouvaire was inspired. He could write anywhere.

Jehan’s bedroom was filled with notepads and sketchbooks on every spare surface that wasn’t covered with plants or discarded clothing or sparkly scarves or empty bottles of water that he always forgot to take downstairs to recycle. Joly and Ferre always got mad at him about that. When he had moved in with them all, Grantaire had helped him paint the walls of his half. They had both spent hours painting the words to his favourite poems in slim black lines around the borders, and then he had filled in all of the gaps with his trusty biro.

The Amis were used to letting Jehan write on them and about them. It was just one of his quirks- he was an artist, it was practically expected. Just like Feuilly making thousands and thousands of tiny origami creatures whenever he got stressed or bored, or Grantaire staring just a little too hard at people’s faces to try and commit it to memory so that he could draw them later. Jehan writing everywhere was just like that. Eponine forever cherished the poem where he referred to her as a “ _fiery maid of Artemis_ ” and had it framed by her bed. He wrote poems about all his friends, about their loves and losses, their heart aches and all the little dramas in their lives.

He barely ever wrote about his own love life because he didn’t have one. He was a Romantic, capital R, and while he loved people he just hadn’t met one that he loved… like that. People thought he was shy or boring and he didn’t care- he wasn’t, so it didn’t matter. He just wasn’t particularly interested in any of them. Years back, in primary he had met a girl at a Shakespeare holiday camp and had fallen in love instantly. “I really, really like you,” he told her.

“I like you too even though you’re kind of gay,” she said back, and she held his hand.

And then she’d gone home and he’d gone home and he’d realised how not-so-great she was and he’d stopped replying to her letters and she’d stopped writing and he’d had his huge sexuality crisis and kept it all in his head except for his poetry and life went on despite the fact that Jean Prouvaire did not care.

Then in secondary he had met a guy- a bit of a dick, leather jacket, smoked and drank. It wasn’t actually love, he didn’t even get on with him that well, but it was nice while it lasted having someone to talk to and kiss. It was a secret, and he never really thought about that. They called it off when people started getting suspicious, because Jehan was not the kind of kid that you wanted to publicize relationships with back then.

When he’d met Grantaire at the start of collage, he’d felt like he might be getting a crush. At first, he had encouraged it, trying to make himself fall for the other boy- he was mostly a nice person, fun to be around even if he was a little loud or a little obnoxious sometimes. However he was also hopelessly in love with Enjolras and Jehan was not that much of a masochist. He shut down any thoughts of a crush after that, and now he was the best friend that Jehan could have ever wanted.

But since then, he hadn’t met anyone he actually _liked_.

That is, until…

 

******

 

“Fucking Courfeyrac.” Jehan flopped onto the sofa next to Taire and shot a smile at Eponine across the table. The others were all out working (Feuilly, Cosette and Joly) getting drunk (Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Chetta and Bahorel) or insanely revising for finals (Enjolras, Combeferre and Marius) and they had the living room to themselves- they’d taped a home-made sign to the door declaring it the meeting place of the “melancholy bastards club”.

“Hey,” Eponine interjected, rolling up her sleeves and sprawling out. For a very petite girl, she could take up a surprising amount of space, and she gently encouraged R with her foot until he slid off all together onto the floor and she could spread out even more. “Don’t be mean. It’s not his fault he’s oblivious.”

“No, seriously, fuck him.” R said, with a frown. “He’s been goading Enj about having a fucking crush on me all day and now Enj won’t even talk to me. It’s fucking annoying.”

Ep tutted. “Do I have to get the swear jar out?”

Grantaire grabbed a couch cushion and threw it at her. “This is the Melancholy Bastards club, I can say whatever the fuck I want!”

Jehan sighed dramatically and flung an arm over his eyes. “He’s just so… ugh. Happy.”

Taire looked up at him and shifted so he was leaning his unshaven cheek on the poet’s floral skinny-jean-clad leg. “You’ll work it out, the two of you, I’m sure.”

“Pfft. Fat chance,” the poet sighed again. Eponine wondered idly if it was possible to sigh yourself to death because if so they would have to get Jehan help soon. “He likes cute, happy people.”

“You’re cute!” She sat up suddenly and leaned over to squish Jehan’s face. “Just look at this cutiepie! Isn’t he cute, Taire?”

Grantaire chuckled. “Very cute. You’ll get your guy, you’ll see.” He took a swig from his beer bottle.

Ep nodded. “You’ve got more chance than either of us, anyway. Enjolras hates him and Marius is in love with a girl so perfect and angel-y that I can’t even dislike her.”

From the floor, Grantaire made a noise of agreement. “Hey, you should maybe ask him out or something. He really does like you.”

“Huh.”

“No, he does. You should… I don’t know, write him a poem or something.”

“C’mon, this is getting depressing,” Jehan stood up and grabbed another couple of beer bottles. “Let’s have a drink and try to forget about it all.”

“Think about it, though,” Taire said, draining his bottle and taking another. “Just… Think about it.”

 

Jehan thought about it. He thought about it a lot.

He wrote about it a lot too.

 

*****

 

“Jehan.” Courfeyrac said to him one morning at the breakfast table.

The poet looked up and blushed, like he usually did looking at his excitable friend.

“Did you write poetry on my coffee mug?”

“Um…” Prouvaire tried his hardest to look innocent. “Maybe.”

“Huh.” Courf shrugged and drained his mug, shooting him a smile with his mouth full of coffee. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

_He didn’t read the poem._

The tall, skinny poet looked down at the table and bit his lip. “Yeah,” he murmured. He looked back at the defaced coffee cup, the words written on it.

‘good morning sunshine, I missed you last night, you bring me to life when your heart beats so bright.’

Jehan bit his lip again and hummed.

 

****

 

The next day he decided to try again. Courf was sat in his room listening to happy music and angrily wishing he had a cat to pet, cocooned in his blankets.

There was a knock on the door and he looked up. “Come in!”

It was Jehan, glowing in a tie-dye button up shirt and pink shorts with his long red hair in an intricate braid over his shoulder. “We’re all going to watch a movie but you seemed kind of… busy. Do you want to come down?”

“Um, yeah sure. In a minute.”

Jehan nodded, but he didn’t go away. Instead he stood, studying Courf with his eyes slightly narrowed.

“What?”

The red-head sighed. “If you liked someone and they didn’t notice you, what would you do about it?”

“Um.” Courf looked away, for a moment. “I’d tell them, I think…? But subtly.”

“Ok. Good, that’s what I thought.” Jehan smiled suddenly, and pulled out a biro to scribble onto the door frame. Something pretty, about how lovely the world seems when he’s around his love.

The moment Jehan was distracted, Courf’s face fell and his shoulders slumped. He hugged his pillow for a moment, burying his face, and when he put it down the smile was back in place.

The redhead finished the poem with a flourish and turned to Courf. “Coming, then?”

“Sure!” He jumped out of bed and half-danced out of the room.

 _Straight past the poem_.

Jehan tried not to look bothered by that, and followed him down the stairs to movie night.

 

*****

 

At the Musain, the group tended to split into its little sub-groups to listen to Enjolras’ speeches. Grantaire, Joly, Bossuet, Eponine and Chetta sat near the back and muttered amongst themselves with copious amounts of alcohol around them. Courf and Ferre sat right at the front and listened intently, and all the others fell somewhere in between.

Jehan didn’t really stay with a certain group the entire evening, instead drifting around between the groups and listening to the speeches with a dream-like air.

This time, he slid into the seat next to Courfeyrac with a small smile and took his arm to begin writing. Courf smiled. “How’s it going with that person of yours?”

He blushed, neon red. “Um. I don’t know.”

“That’s not a particularly good sign, is it?”

“Well. I hope it’s not going badly.” Pause. “They still haven’t noticed yet.”

“Ahhh. Well, keep on going and it’ll work out, I’m sure.”

At the front, Enjolras was trying to finish off his speech for the end of the night. He cleared his throat. “Guys, pay attention please! Ok, so next week we really need to discuss the planning for the counter-protest over the politicians blocking the-“

From the back, Grantaire fake-coughed. “Bullshit.”

“Ugh,” the leader in red groaned. “Grantaire? You want to say something?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just had something stuck in my throat.”

“Well, if you’re ill, maybe you should go home. Anyway. This could be our chance to actually get some media exposure and to gain some visibility in the public opinion-” On the other side of the room, Grantaire was raising his eyebrows sarcastically and up-ending his almost empty beer bottle and adding it to the pile. “What now, Grantaire?”

“Nothing, Apollo. Just the usual, you know. No one’s going to listen to us, no one’s going to give a fuck about changing the world or living up to your absurdly high standards or-“

“Yes, yes, we get the message. Anyway.”

Courf smirked and turned to Jehan. “Why don’t they just screw already and get over themselves?”

The poet smiled and finished the poem he was writing on Courfeyrac’s arm with a flourish. “Because it’s Enjolras and Grantaire. Since when have they ever done anything the easy way?”

“True. Very true…” Courfeyrac half stood and shrugged on his jacket. “C’mon, if you’re going straight home we can walk a little ahead of them and give them some space to talk. Plus I don’t want to need to walk with R right now… He’s lovely and all but he’s also much stronger than me and I don’t particularly want him to punch me for trying to help him along with Enj.”

Jehan jumped up with a smile, but internally frowned. _He still didn’t read the poem._

 

****

 

“Saturday night and we’re gonna have a party…” Bahorel crooned from the living room as Jehan came in. Saturday nights were their group nights- they took it in turns to cook (usually disastrous) food, listened to bad pop music and got very drunk together. It was Jehan’s favourite night of the week, and he was bouncing in time to the music as he walked through the door. Bahorel had pushed back the sofas so that there was more space for dancing despite the fact that most of the others were just sitting and watching.

He was dramatically dancing along to their shared Pop Classics CD in the middle of the room, flinging his arms out wildly, and as the poet tried to slink past unseen and slump on to the couch he caught him around the waist and swirled him into the dance. “OOOOOH baby!!”

Jehan joined in with the dancing with a breathless laugh, letting Bahorel twirl him like a rag doll. On the sofa, Eponine and Grantaire were snickering at him and as they spun past he stuck up his middle finger at them. Joly was jumping up and down and headbanging with a nervous-looking Bahorel shuffling and clicking his fingers next to him. Combeferre even wiggled a little as he made his way over to the armchair where Enjolras was slumped, worriedly going through an essay he’d written.

“Um… I don’t know if you know, but on the chores chart, it says that it’s our turn to cook,” Ferre told him, and Enj looked up, his eyes swamped in dark circles and panic.

“What. No. I need to. Ugh”

Ferre nodded. “Generally if you speak english it’s easier for us mere mortals to understand you but you know. I’ve known you long enough to understand that. Put down that bloody essay and come help me and Courf in the kitchen. Then you can come back in here and have fun with your friends- dance maybe, or—“ Catching Enjolras’ eye, Ferre gulped. “Ok maybe not dancing, but you can come and be sociable and leave the essay for the morning. You still have a few days to complete it so don’t worry yet.”

“Fine,” Enjolras groaned, and let himself get dragged into the kitchen.

Grantaire watched him leave the room absentmindedly, until Eponine punched him in the arm. “Quit staring.”

“Oh fuck off, Ponine,” Taire muttered good naturedly. “I can look. Just can’t touch.” He paused. “Or hold a conversation without him wanting to kill me.”

Feuilly came in and Bahorel finally released Jehan to go sweep him off his feet and make a fuss over him- Feuilly worked 4 jobs to try and pay for his classes.

The red haired poet stepped over to Grantaire and Ponine, holding out a hand. “I seem to have lost my partner, care to take his place, either of you?”

“No thanks,” Eponine smirked.

“Fine,” Grantaire said, and Jehan bounced a little on the balls of his feet because Grantaire was a fantastic dancer. “But put on some better music.”

“No can do, friend,” Bahorel called out from the other side of the room. “Shitty pop music only, we don’t have any other CDs.” He hit the skip button a couple of times, until the first notes of Mambo Number 5 started. “Here you go, this is a little better.”

“Ayyyyyyyyyyy!” Taire jumped up, slinging an arm around Jehan’s waist and spinning him around in a faux ballroom dancing style. The two of them made a good pair, if a little odd- Jehan was almost half a foot taller than Grantaire, lanky and uncoordinated, while Taire was small and wiry in a sort of athletic way. The red in Jehan’s hair complemented R’s green hoodie, the one he seemed to permanently live in, and their dancing complimented each other equally, although the shorter man made a point of holding him tighter to make sure he didn’t trip.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, shitty fuck ugh, fuck!” Combeferre’s usually refined voice was heard from the kitchen and R raised his eyebrows and dipped Jehan back so that the end of his plait touched the floor.

“Do you think they’re having trouble?”

A moment later, Courfeyrac stumbled into the room. Pasta sauce dripped merrily off his nose, and there was a stick of dried spaghetti in his hair. “It’s gone wrong,” he groaned, a little unnessacarily. His eyes flickered fast over Jehan and Grantaire, his face impassive.

Grantaire let Jehan go and leaned over to pull the spaghetti out of his hair. “Oh honey,” Eponine smirked, from the sofa.

More screams of frustration were heard from the kitchen.

“Was that Enjolras?” Feuilly asked. “He has surprising range- I could never hit those high notes.”

“Truly, he has a talent.” Bossuet giggled. “Just maybe not for cooking, eh?”

Musichetta elbowed him hard in the ribs and he doubled over with a loud grunt. “Leave ‘im alone, it’s not his fault, is it?”

“Well, technically…”

Courf shot him a look. “I don’t know what happened- we were making pasta and then all of a sudden it just… went wrong.”

“We can see that, love,” Joly smirked. “Look, it’s ok. We’ll all help you clean up and then we can order pizza, ok?”

 

The Amis all congregated in the kitchen armed with various cleaning implements, wiping the tomato sauce from the kitchen cupboards. Enjolras was sulking a little in the corner, moping angrily at the counter. “I’m sorry-” he started to say for the fifth time and Courf threw a dish cloth at him.

“Stop apologising! God, it was my fault not yours.”

“I’m still sorry. If I had paid more attention-“

“It would probably still have been a disaster. We’re going to need to ban Courf from the kitchen soon, seriously.” Musichetta added.

“Look, we need to eat… I’ll order pizza for everyone, ok?”

“Yay!” Joly squeaked. “Pineapple and olive please.”

Bossuet frowned. “That, my darling, is fucking disgusting.”

“Your face is fucking disgusting.” Joly smirked and kissed him on the nose.

Enjolras extracted himself from the corner and pulled out his phone. He still had tomato sauce on his face and all over his shirt, and his blonde hair was clinging damply to his forehead. He looked a little like a very frazzled Hannibal after his latest… dinner party.

“Pepperoni please!”

“Plain margarita, thank yoooou.”

 

***

 

Jehan slid into the seat next to Courfeyrac, a gigantic slice of Veggie Extreme on his plate and half of it in his mouth.

Courf looked up and grinned at him, then seemed to check himself and glanced over at R who was sitting next to Enjolras and seemingly getting on with him for once. “Sooo…” He said. “How’s it going with your crush?”

Jehan shrugged and pulled the pizza box off the table to doodle on its lid.

“I think it’s great. I mean, R would really be the perfect guy for you, I think. You’re both arty and sweet-”

“R?? You think I fancy Grantaire?” Jehan squeaked, his eyes widening. He may have been a little louder than he meant to be.

“Hell yeah you do,” Taire called from across the room, and Jehan flipped him off hastily.

“He’s lovely and all but he’s a total twat and anyway, I know him too well.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t mean for him to find out, I’m really sorry- I’m such a bad friend, oh my god.”

“No you’re not, seriously! It’s not Grantaire, stop freaking out.”

“Oh. Right! So who is it?” Courf asked.

 _Are you stupid??_ Jehan wanted to shout. “Don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does, you’re my friend and I want you to be happy,”

Jean Prouvaire shrugged again and carried on writing, his shoulder gently bumping against Courf’s. Finishing his sentence, he sat up a little to pass it over to Courf, to finally explain to him that he liked him…

In the corner, Enjolras and Grantaire were bickering quietly to themselves as per usual, but Enjolras seemed to be getting more upset- Courf tensed up too, trying to hear what was making Enjolras so upset.

Jehan looked up too, biting his lip at the change in atmosphere.

“-and it’s not like any of this stuff actually affects you.”

“What the fuck, Grantaire? Of course it affects me!”

“How? Please, tell me more, pretty boy.”

“Call me pretty boy one more time.” Enjolras’ voice had gotten dangerously low and Grantaire shrank back a little.

“Fuck you.” He hissed. “Fuck you, pretty boy.”

Enjolras stood in a whirl of white hot rage, and walked out, banging the door hard behind him.

Courfeyrac sat in shock for a moment. “Fuck,” he breathed in the stunned silence that followed. Jehan was shaking a little. “I’ve never seen him get that angry before.”

Ferre stood up, crossing to the door. “I’ll go speak to him…” He shot a glare at Grantaire over his shoulder before leaving.

“Yeah… I’d better go too.” Courf hurriedly stood up.

Jehan watched him go with wide eyes and turned to Grantaire, who was staring at the place where Enjolras had been sitting with wide eyes. He looked at the poet a little helplessly. “God, I need a smoke.”

“You need to go and apologise,” Jehan scolded. “What the hell happened? You were fine five seconds ago.”

 Grantaire shrugged. “We were talking about oppressive beauty standards and I pointed out that he was not actually affected by them considering that he looks like a fucking marble statue and he got pissed off.”

Jehan sighed, leaning his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. On the other side, Bossuet flopped down in the space that Enjolras had occupied. “You’ve got to be more thoughtful, Taire. He’s affected by that bullshit more than you’d think.”

“Huh, right.”

“No, seriously. He used to get so much crap at school for the way he looks. There was this one time… A guy had been calling him pretty boy all day in class and then he followed him out of the school gates and cornered him. Enj got angry, really angry, and ended up getting into his first fight and… yeah. He doesn’t like being called pretty boy much.” Joly added, sliding onto the floor in front of him.

“Oh. I… I didn’t know.” He looked down, abashed.

Jehan sighed. “You can talk to him about it in the morning, right? Go get some sleep now, ok?”

“I’ll just go talk to him before I go to bed, let him punch me in the face or something if he likes…”

Jehan nodded and followed him up the stairs, awkwardly patting him on the back.

 

*********

 

Jehan very strongly regretted letting Taire go and apologise.

Seriously. There had been some noises from the neighbouring room that sounded like apologising and making up, and Jehan had smiled happily because great! They’re friends again.

Then there had been some noises that maybe sounded like fighting and bumping around furniture.

Jehan had been about to go over there and see if he could defuse the situation before anyone got hurt when a loud noise that was definitely not fighting sounded through the walls.

_Was that Enjolras??_

Ooooooohh…

Yeah, he didn’t think that either of them would appreciate it if he tried to diffuse their… situation. However, he didn’t particularly appreciate his two good friends doing… whatever it was they were doing, ew, in the room right next to him. Also, he didn’t think that it was a particularly healthy way to solve arguments, but each to their own.

“Oh god, yes, yes!”

Jehan’s eyes widened and he bolted.

****

The bathroom at their house was Jehan’s favourite place. In the mornings it was bathed in a buttery yellow light and in the evenings you could see the stars above the city skyline through the grimy window. There was a weird array of plants on the window-sill, Eric the Cactus and Mordred the Venus Fly Catcher. They were his, of course, and he’d named them. He had bought them with him when he left home to go to college and they were looking a little sickly now. The mirror was covered in postcards from whenever any of them had to go away from the rest, and sticky gems. Written across it in lipstick (courtesy of Musichetta, of course) was the words ‘you’re fucking beautiful’ and a smiley face.

The bath was his favourite place. It had a ratty old shower curtain draped around the outside that he had decorated with swirly paint along with Grantaire and Feuilly. The shower head was rusting but the white tiles around it were mostly undamaged. Over all the surrounding walls were doodles from Grantaire, messages from the others- “Stop nicking my fucking shampoo you arseholes”- really bad jokes from Joly and of course, poems from Jehan. These little pieces of their life surrounded him, at least one memory of each one of his friends, and it made him happy.

Currently, Jehan was sat in the bath, glaring at Courfeyrac’s bottle of shampoo and trying to think of a way to tell Courf that he was in love with him but without being too obvious…

He leaned over the side of the bath, picking up his pen, and thoughtfully leaned towards the shampoo bottle…

 

****

 

Of course, because his life couldn’t be any more awkward, he met Enjolras awkwardly sneaking out of Grantaire’s room and trying to pretend that he hadn’t been up half the night doing… whatever it was that they had been doing.

Enj blushed puce and nodded awkwardly, looking like he wanted to melt into the ground. “Erm. Morning, Prouvaire.”

“Morning, sunshine!” The taller boy managed to say without a hint of sarcasm. “Um. Good night’s sleep?” Oh god. That was not what he meant to ask. He could see the blonde internally cringing though, and almost thought he deserved it.

“Uh, ahhh. Um.” He was turning an interesting shade of tomato red. “Yes. I slept. Well. Yes.”

“Good, good. Enjoy your shower!” Jehan grinned and turned to go, but paused. "Seriously, I'm glad you sorted this all out with R."

Enjolras frowned. "Well, I... I mean. Yeah. I think we're ok again."

"Enjolras, you were literally loud enough to wake up the neighbours last night, I'm pretty sure you're ok."

"But..." E looked away, the blush getting even worse. "That was just pity, because of what the others told him about me." Over his shoulder, Jehan saw Grantaire emerging from the bedroom to go down and make coffee or something and he tried desperately to signal to Enjolras to stop talking. "It wasn't serious... It's not like we're a couple or anything."

Grantaire went white.

Jehan bit through his lip.

Enjolras looked round and saw R, who was trying to school his face into a neutral expression. With a deep breath Taire managed to fix a smile on his face. "Sure. Not serious. Right, ok I'm going to go. For a run. Don't wait up."

Enjolras looked after him, face scrunching up like a bewildered kitten. He turned to Jehan. "What-"

"Oh, work it out yourself. You're smart enough," Jehan sighed, running a hand through his loose red hair. "I'll see you at breakfast."

 

***

Courf had not slept well. He had spent half the night wondering desperately who Jehan’s secret crush was and the other half really wishing that he didn’t have the bedroom on the other side of Grantaire’s because it was fucking awkward. Also annoying that freaking _Enjolras_ got some before he did.

Yawning loudly, he stretched out a little, almost touching the sloping ceiling despite his short-ness. On the window sill, Mordred the Venus Fly Trap was drooping a little and he absently scooped a little water out of the warming-up shower into the pot.

Their shower was ancient and took hours to warm up, but finally when it was heated up enough to hurt his skin slightly he clambered in and tipped his head back under the stream. A moment of warm blankness filled his mind and he absently wondered if that was what Pontmercy felt like all the time.

Sniggering to himself, he reached for the shampoo and frowned as he noticed a new addition to the scribbles on the wall right behind his bottle.

“Roses are red,  
Violets are blue,  
Courf you’re a fool,  
And I fuckin love you.

~ Jean Prouvaire x"

 

****

 

Jehan was leaning on the sideboard in the kitchen when Courfeyrac hurtled into the room, snatched his bowl of cereal out of his hands and dumped it on the counter top, threw his arms around his neck and dragged him down for a kiss.

“Mmmph!” The poet flailed wildly for a moment, before letting his hands drift down onto Courf’s (still slightly damp) shoulders.

Finally they separated and the dark haired boy grinned and kissed his nose. “You’re dork.”

“You read it then?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Like it?”

Courf just kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading- this turned out longer than expected so sorry if you're sort of sleeping by now..  
> The idea was helped along by howdoyoupronouncecombeferre on tumblr.
> 
> This sort of feels unfinished so if people like it i may finish it and try to give Taire and Enjolras a happier ending, or explain how they met or something idk


End file.
